


Do This In Remembrance

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Character Death, Community: dm_asp_fest, Dark Magic, Deathfic, Established Relationship, Gore, Gore With Sexuality, Guro, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Albus are so very much in love. Discovering that Albus is pregnant is a joy and a blessing. But when Albus falls sick, they discover that there is an ancient Malfoy curse that affects him and that will destroy him and the son he carries. There is a cure, but it means they have a choice: either they save Albus and their son, or they save Draco. A choice must be made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do This In Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been podficced! The podfic is available from leemarchais on Livejournal [here](http://leemarchais.livejournal.com/48639.html).
> 
> This was written for the dm_asp_fest on Livejournal. I resisted this prompt. I was so disturbed by it when I saw it. Horrified, perhaps, but then it IS a classic horror prompt, which is what makes it so irresistible at the same time. I planned, originally, to draw it, but the art wasn’t working the way I needed it to be: dark and stark and utterly vicious on the page. So instead I realized I could write it. And this was one hell of a tough piece to write. It is dark, yes, but I hope it also celebrates the core of this fest, which is the love that binds Albus and Draco, and that bond between them. They are so in love that they would do anything for each other.
> 
> I would like to thank melusinahp for a prompt that really made me think. And in the end, let me just say that JKR owns the characters and world (and would never do anything quite like this to them, that’s all on me).

They begin with the blood.

Albus feels it thrumming beneath his tongue, the pulse rapid as Draco’s breath comes in short, quick pants. His teeth lightly scrape the skin and Draco moans, pressing up, cock filling Albus deeply. Albus rises over him and drops, and the slide of Draco’s prick against his prostate almost undoes him. He feels that pulse leap, and latches on, sucking deeply to leave a mark.

“Al…” Draco’s voice is hoarse, fingers cling to his hips. “I’m close, Al. Do it now.”

They are both close; Al’s cock is thick and heavy and aching, begging for release. He won’t touch himself, can’t bring himself to do that, not when Draco is his only focus. He feels Draco’s fingertips skate along his length, and Al’s movements stutter. “I want you to fill me,” Albus begs. One more time. He needs that feeling just one more time.

He draws back and sees tears squeezing at the corners of Draco’s eyes, sees fear there and resolve. Draco drags him down, kissing him hard. “Now,” he growls, and it is an order.

Albus has to obey.

The slash of the knife is swift, and Albus covers the gash with his mouth. He cannot let a drop escape as it fills his senses with salt and iron.

Blood.

Life.

Draco shudders beneath him, and he is coming, filling Albus with warmth. Albus tenses as well, losing the joy of his orgasm in the fight to keep his mouth locked onto Draco’s throat. Each spurt from his cock is echoed by a pulse of hot, bitter, metallic fluid into his mouth.

He finds Draco’s hand and entangles their fingers, squeezing hard and feeling Draco squeeze back.

“Take my blood,” Draco whispers. “Take my body. Do this in remembrance of me, Al. Do this for our son.”

Albus can only swallow, each desperate gulp washing blood down his throat. The gush slows, eases, and he is able to gasp for air without missing anything.

Draco’s breath beneath him slows, gutters in his chest. Albus almost stops and pulls away, but a squeeze of his hand reminds him that he cannot stop. He must do this. He _must_.

“I love you.”

The whisper is soft, breath barely stirring Albus’ hair. He feels tears prick his eyes, but he can’t cry right now. He licks at the wound, teasing more from it, keeping it from clotting before he is done. Beneath him he can feel a chill in Draco’s body.

Draco’s fingers go slack as the flow slows to a drip, then is done.

Albus places his hand on Draco’s chest, hovering over a heart that barely beats. He whispers the words of a spell he knows is Dark, but he casts it out of love. Out of need. He casts it because his lover begged him to, and because it is the only way.

Draco’s heart beats so slowly that he might as well be dead. For all intents and purposes, he _is_ dead, Albus knows. There is nothing of Draco left inside this shell; Albus has taken him in. Absorbed him into himself to feed their child.

He takes Draco’s limp hand and presses it to his slightly swollen abdomen. “I love you,” Albus murmurs. “I won’t let our son forget you.”

#

It began with good news.

Albus paced in the living room of the home he shared with Draco, watching the flames flicker in the fireplace. Any moment they would flare and the Floo would open. Any moment and his husband would be home. Soon. It had to be soon.

He stopped, staring as if his anxious glare might bring Draco home sooner, and perhaps it worked as Draco stepped through, brushing soot from his barrister’s robes.

Draco straightened, one eyebrow arching. “Did we have plans, and I’m late?”

“We didn’t, but now we do,” Albus said excitedly. At Draco’s bemused grin, Albus leaned in to kiss him thoroughly. “We need to celebrate. I’ve had Winky prepare all your favorites and bring a bottle of wine up for you from the cellars.” Because Albus was still terrible at selecting a good wine, despite Draco’s attempts over the last three years to train him otherwise. When it came to wine, the house elf was far better at making a selection than Al would ever be, and Al was content to let Winky do that for him.

“Is there a reason why we’re celebrating?” Draco went along as Albus tugged him down the hall to the formal dining room, pausing when Albus paused to snog him thoroughly in the hall. “Not that I’ll object to favorite foods, wine, nor celebrations involving random acts of kissing, but I should like to know what it might all be for.” His gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “And why are you not partaking of the wine?”

Albus grinned. Of course Draco noticed how he’d said it. Very little got past Draco, which was one of the things Al loved about him. That sharp wit and intelligence. “Because for the next several months, it’d be best if I don’t drink alcohol. I should also absent myself when others smoke, avoid eating raw fish and undercooked meat, and take the Floo as much as possible rather than Apparating.”

Draco blinked, bemused, a slow smile starting. “You’re pregnant,” he said.

Albus kissed him again. “Six weeks,” he admitted. “Which means we have thirty-four weeks to go, perhaps less since often a man can’t carry all the way to term. But I’ve already spoken to my Healer and we have a plan to ensure that this baby will be as safe as possible. Everything will go perfectly, for both of us.”

“You’re pregnant.” Draco’s normally staid, calm exterior was shattered, an expression of wonder lighting silvered eyes. His hands framed Albus’ face, and Draco kissed him slowly, cautiously, as carefully as if he might break.

“I’m not made of glass,” Albus chuckled, pressing against Draco, sliding in close. “You can still be rough with me.”

“Can I?” Draco gripped Al and turned him, pushing him up against the wall as he lifted him. Al’s legs went around Draco’s waist, hips canting just so as Draco yanked his fly down. “How rough do you want me to be?”

Albus groaned, thrusting against Draco’s touch. “You can’t hurt me. You can’t hurt either of us,” he said quickly, then both their clothes were gone and Draco had him pinned against the wall, lubrication summoned and quickly pressed into him.

It was hard and fast, and as Albus came with a shout he thought it was the perfect way to celebrate the life they had created.

#

Albus holds Draco’s hand in his own. He kisses the tips of the fingers, tongue tasting salt from the cold skin.

Nothing.

Eyes close and tears are at the corners of his eyes. “I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

_You must. For you, and for our son, you must._

Breath shudders in his chest, a sob slipping free. He knows the words are just in his mind, but he can still hear Draco’s voice. He feels the ghost of a touch against the back of his neck, hears Draco whispering in his ears. He knows the spells. He knows the ritual.

He knows that if he does not do this, both he and their son will die.

He has mapped out a plan that will carry him through, with a preservation spell that has been carefully extended to last exactly long enough. Today he has Draco’s hands. He gently slides the wedding ring from Draco’s finger, placing it in his own pocket.

The spell, when he casts it, is easier than he thought. His finger draws a line around Draco’s wrist, the spell opening flesh and bone until the hand parts from the body. Beneath the skin, the muscle is warm, only a hint of blood remaining.

Albus slips one finger beneath the edge of the skin, lifting it, feeling the slide of it as it parts from the sinew. The tendons lie close to the bone here, little bits of flesh. He only needs a small amount today. Every time he will need more, and it will need to _mean_ more. It is a long cycle until his child is born.

He places the skin on his lips, feels the wet inside of it and the rougher outside. He swears he can taste the imprint of the skin, the texture, even though he knows it is too small for his tongue. It is slimy, and both cold and warm, and it tastes of salt as he forces himself to swallow as if it were a steamed oyster.

He feels a flutter at his center, an easing of his nausea.

He reaches his finger under the skin again and this time he rips muscle from bone, wincing as the tissue parts. It squishes between his fingertips, and he wishes he could cook it. He remembers, abruptly, this one time that he and Draco ate steak tartar and he almost smiles and wishes for a bit of garlic, or sauce.

Eyes closed, he places the bit of flesh on his tongue and holds it there, sucking out the drops of blood before he chews it quickly and swallows it down.

Again, their son approves.

For a moment, Albus rests Draco’s severed hand against his belly, letting father touch son.

Then he comes back to his meal. One hand tonight, another tomorrow, and he cannot stop until the bones are picked clean. At first, he uses his spell to help him slice meat from bone, but he realizes quickly that there is something visceral in doing it himself. Something primal. He feels it, deep inside his own body as he pries the flesh apart and savours it.

When he is done, there is a pile of bones. Twenty-seven, to be exact. Albus counts them twice, curious to see. There are the eight that formed the wrist, five from the hand, and fourteen from the fingers and thumb. He knows that if he cracks one, the tender marrow will be exposed. He and Draco discussed this in great detail, and Albus knows that nothing is to be lost. Nothing.

He gathers the bones and places them neatly into a cauldron. He will boil them until they crack and drink the broth that has been made. Then he will grind what remains to dust and add it to every meal.

He takes Draco into him every day, every moment, and Draco will nourish their son and purify him.

Albus reaches into the casket where Draco lies, feels the strange tug of the preservation spell that keeps him safe. Fingers drift over Draco’s naked chest and again he feels that almost heartbeat.

There is no pain. Draco promised him this. That is why the blood had to be first.

But it is hard to see him like this and to grieve. It is hard to see him and know that he will not wake to be there to watch when their son is born.

It is the only way.

“In remembrance,” Albus murmurs. He renews the spell, and leaves.

#

Albus knelt on the floor, body curled tightly as he pressed hands against the gentle swell of his abdomen. He could feel the change there, feel the child that had just started to grow. He cried out at the pain that lanced across him, feeling like it would cut him in half, then choked on the vomit that spilled sourly from his mouth.

He didn’t hear Draco come in, but he was there, body hunched over Albus, fingertips drifting over forehead, back, shoulders. Comforting Albus. “I know you ought to be sick, but this is a bit much,” Draco murmured. “I’m worried.”

So was Albus, but he didn’t want to admit that something might be wrong. “I’ll be fine,” he said, keeping his voice firm. “The Healer said it’s normal, and we only have to worry if I stop gaining weight.”

Albus didn’t add that he’d lost weight this last week. Not much, but enough that he noticed it. He was hungry all the time, but he couldn’t keep anything down. The baby moved. He wasn’t supposed to feel it yet, but he did, felt the child wriggling about inside of him, as if he wound around his guts and tugged. Albus screamed as his belly clenched.

Just like that.

Like something was twisting inside of him, impossibly painful.

“Something’s wrong.” Draco helped Albus stand, a quick spell cleansing away the remnants of his illness. “We’re going to St. Mungo’s.” He wrapped a cloak around Albus, helping him dress, neatening his hair and clothes.

“A little illness is normal,” Albus protested.

Draco framed his face in his hands, kissing him lightly. “You’re pale as a sheet, lips bloodless. I haven’t seen you keep a meal down in days. We are going to St. Mungo’s and that is that.” He wrapped his arms around Albus, tugging him in close, enfolding him in the safety of his robes. “I won’t lose you, Al. I won’t lose either of you.”

Albus was helpless as another wave of pain left him clinging to Draco, fighting to stay upright. He wrapped his arms around Draco, holding on tight as he was whisked into the spin of Apparition. He came out of it unsteady, falling to his knees and losing another wave of nothing from his stomach.

The world greyed, and Albus couldn’t see anything but small flashes of light. He floated in a haze of pain and exhaustion, and finally slept.

When he woke, Draco sat with him, their hands tangled tightly together. Draco reached out as soon as he saw Al’s eyes flutter open, fingers drifting against Al’s cheek. “You’re awake,” Draco murmured.

“I feel like crap,” Albus replied. He felt like he ought to vomit again, but there was nothing left in his stomach but the pain. It crawled inside of him, eating away at him. “How long have we been here?”

“Long enough.” Draco lifted their entwined hands, pressing a kiss to the tips of Albus’ fingers. “The Healer has run some tests.”

“And?”

Draco’s expression was serious. He stroked Albus’ cheek, as grey eyes met green. “You might lose the baby,” he said softly.

No. _No_. “We can’t.” Albus choked on the words, on the idea that this could be happening. “That’s not possible. I won’t. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. If I’m doing something wrong, I’ll stop. I’ll stay in bed all day and listen to the Wireless. Draco, this is our _child_. I can’t lose him.”

“It’s not that simple.” Draco’s words were a whisper, his lips soft as they brushed against Albus’ mouth. “There’s a curse. The Healer can’t tell the specifics, but it centers around the child, and if it can’t be lifted, you’ll both die.”

A curse. There was a sharp twinge, and Albus gasped, fingers clenching tightly. He held his breath, trying to let it out again slowly, as if that would somehow take away the pain. “What kind of curse?”

Draco shook his head. “We can’t tell, but the guess is that it is old magic.” His lips thinned, and he looked down as if unable to meet Al’s gaze. “Something from my family. It has my signature upon it.”

“Then we’ll find out what it is.” Albus framed Draco’s face with his hands, turned his face to look at him. “That library of yours has to be good for something, doesn’t it? There has to be some way to break the curse, and we’ll be fine. We’ll be the family we’ve always wanted.”

He was so sure of it, despite the doubt in Draco’s expression. Albus kissed him again and ignored the pain twisting in his gut. “Take me home,” Albus whispered. “Take me home, and let’s figure this out.”

#

The hands and feet are gone now, the bones picked clean and boiled. Albus carries a mug with the last of the broth, half-congealed as it cools, the marrow thickening the liquid stewed from the broken bones. Albus sits down next to the coffin and reaches for Draco’s hand, hesitating when he finds only the stump.

He can’t twine fingers because they are not there.

This brings tears to his eyes, and he dashes them away with one hand. Hormones and grief threaten to overwhelm him, but he must stay strong, for their child.

“This is what you wanted,” he whispers, and there is no answer. He presses his hand to Draco’s chest, feeling for the beat that echoes. One beat for every four of their child, but they are still synchronized. THUMP-thump-thump-thump-THUMP-thump-thump-thump. Albus’s fingers curl, the nails digging into the flesh.

He could peel the skin away, separate it from muscle and lay Draco bare. He could crack ribs and dig out the heart, but not yet. Not yet. The heart must be the last to go; the entire preservation spell hinges upon it. This spell, this dark magic, it is rooted in the love Draco has for his husband and son. Nothing must disturb that.

Albus rubs at his belly and feels the answering press of a foot or hand. He smiles slightly. “I know what you need,” he murmurs.

He is used to the spell now, accustomed to the way it splits neatly through the muscle, separating it cleanly down to the bone. No blood pumps, but there is still some stored which stains his fingers as he peels muscle back. Albus pauses to suck the blood from his fingers, teeth digging out a bit of flesh from beneath his nails.

He kisses the skin at the crook of Draco’s elbow as if it was for love, not desperate hunger. He kisses every bit before it is split, before Draco becomes nothing more than strips of meat to sate a hunger that Albus never wanted. He sucks at the gentle drops of blood that well up, licks them away, then nips at the frayed ends of tissue before biting them off with a soft growl and swallowing him down.

The child is awake. Their son does somersaults of pleasure at this meal, then settles once Al’s belly is full.

It is wrong, Albus knows, but he cannot help himself. He climbs into the coffin, pressing against Draco’s armless side, Al’s belly bulging out and making it difficult to get close. He smells blood and iron, feels the slick of blood against his skin. Tears prick the corners of his eyes as breath shudders in and out. He inhales again and beneath it all he smells his husband, his lover, the scent caught by the spell and preserved. Old books and ash, and a hint of hair gel.

Al’s eyes close and he presses his hand against Draco’s chest to feel the all too faint beat. He needs his lover. _Needs_ him. “I miss you,” he whispers. “I take you into me, and I know you will not be forgotten, but oh _Merlin_ , I need more of you than this. Be with me, Draco. One heart, one soul. One body.”

Draco cannot respond, but that soft, slow beat eases Albus’ mind, and he sleeps.

#

Albus spends his days surrounded by books. He had always enjoyed reading, studying, figuring out how to twist spells to his own design. He hadn’t been sorted Ravenclaw, but he might as well have been. His drive overshadowed his hunger for knowledge and the Hat had placed him in Slytherin instead.

It was that drive that pushed him now. He refused to give in to a curse, refused to let it hold sway over his life. Albus was _happy_. He had Draco, and they would have a son. He would not let something from the past interfere with his future.

Draco had to work and could not help, but as long as Albus was within summoning range, he could work on his own. The pain was miserable, only abating when Draco was near. It was at its best when they were in bed, when Albus had Draco in his mouth, his husband thrusting slowly while Albus swallowed him down. It was at its worst when Albus was alone.

He had read more of the Malfoy family history than he had ever cared to know. He knew that these things did not make _his_ husband evil. He knew where the Malfoy name had come from, and the pride they held in their purity. But Draco was different, and he loved Albus despite his less than pure blood.

Blood.

Albus closed his eyes and heard the echo of Draco’s pulse in his ears, imagined the touch of it through the large vein of Draco’s prick against his tongue. The memory was visceral and bright, and Albus _knew_ that blood was the key.

He swept away several books and summoned more.

He found it late in the day, before Draco came home.

It was long ago, laid by Perseus Malfoy against his son Alistair when he chose to marry a lady of less than pure blood. Perseus declared that the Malfoy line would end, rather than be impure, and that any Malfoy child of impure blood would destroy the carrier from the inside out. The infant would become a parasite, fed only by blood unless it had what it desired: the purest of blood, to cleanse it and turn it as pure as any Malfoy must be.

Albus’ hand fell to his belly, the child turning gently beneath his touch. Their son was destroying him because Al’s blood was not pure. But there must be a way. Every curse had a loophole. Every curse could be broken.

He read on.

Alistair refused to lose his wife and child. As she grew more pale, Alistair despaired. Perseus informed him that only purity would save the child—a son. That son must be made pure, and as it sought to make itself so, it devoured the mother. But she was impure and could not help it.

Alistair, however, was pure. As pure as any Malfoy ever was.

If she devoured Alistair, the child would survive. She would survive. The child would be born a Malfoy, as pure as any other.

But Alistair would be gone.

This was the answer. Albus knew it in his heart and in his gut. Blood and flesh, sinew and bone. Either their son would devour Albus, and both would die of starvation, or Albus must take Draco into himself to feed their son and purify him.

He closed the book carefully when all he wanted to do was throw it across the room. He could hide it. Never tell Draco. He could go into the darkness and take their son with him, and Draco would survive.

Or he could destroy Draco to save himself.

There was no choice that could save both.

Albus wept.

#

So much of Draco is gone now.

Albus sleeps in the coffin every night, curled around the stump of a man, taking comfort from that faint beat of Draco’s heart. It is all he has left and he is loathe to let it go.

When he wakes, his stomach roils, even though he just ate the soft flesh from inside Draco’s throat last night. And the morning before he ground Draco’s flaxen hair to dust and mixed it with his morning tea. But the child grows larger and Albus grows heavy and aches for their son to be born. Every day he is hungrier. Every day he needs more of Draco to sustain him.

He eats little else these days.

Sweets hold no allure. Instead of chocolate or treacle tarts, he dreams of the soft pop of cartilage or the way bone scrapes his teeth when he gnaws bits of tendon away. He can recall the taste of fresh marrow and craves it more than peaches or strawberries. He aches for the moments when he is here, when he shares in his husband’s body. When he sates their son.

He sits up slowly, movements ungainly as he straddles Draco’s chest. His rounded belly rests against Draco’s chin as Albus leans forward and cradles his skull. Fingers drift over high cheekbones. Thumbs brush against his eyelids until they nudge up and Draco’s eyes are bared, dove grey and staring sightlessly.

This is where Albus will begin.

He shifts his fingers slightly, letting the thumbs dig in beneath the eyeball. He needs no magic for this. He simply needs to press in and up, the eyeballs popping out, caught by the small strands of ligaments. He pinches his fingers and tears those loose with ease, and moments later he has both eyes in the palm of his hands.

“You share yourself with me and our son,” Albus murmurs. He takes one eyeball in his mouth; it is more solid than he thought until he bites down and the softness squishes out. He swallows quickly. “Give our son your vision, and let him see with your eyes,” he whispers. “Let him see into the hearts of others. Let him spot flaws, and cut through the illusions as you did. Let him be able to look beyond what is presented into what lies hidden beneath.”

He takes the second eye and savors it, rolling the texture over his tongue when it bursts free.

Their son tumbles in pleasure, and Albus is sated for a moment, but he is not done.

A spell slices cleanly through Draco’s spine, severing head from body. Albus lifts it and rips the lower jaw free. He sets it aside; he will clean the bones with care later. His son craves something more now. He is getting close, Albus is sure of it; he can tell by the way his body lets him know what he needs most.

His fingers press into the soft palette, breaking through into the sinus cavities. From there he can open a crack and find the soft tissue of the brain.

Grey muddied with blood, much like Draco’s eyes.

Albus scoops some out with two fingertips, and presses it to his tongue as his eyes close. This. Yes. He sighs at the taste of it, knowing that Draco’s mind will be with them, with all its sharp wit and intelligence.

He eats with his fingers, licking them clean after every swipe of soft spongy tissue.

 _I love you_.

Draco’s mind is in his mind; of course Albus can hear him speak now. He hears the soft murmurs of voices, and he doesn’t need words to hear the affection.

When he is sated, their son quiets in his belly and sleeps. Albus is exhausted, and wants only to digest, to remember, to dream.

There is little left of Draco, but Albus curls around him anyway, holding heart to heart as he dreams Draco’s dreams.

#

“Impossible.” Draco’s eyes were full of storms, dark grey clouds, brooding and angry. “There’s a way around it. There is always a way around any curse.”

“It’s a _curse_ ,” Albus said. “I’ve been reading about it for days. I’ve looked into every aspect, researched every possible loophole. And that’s the only one there is.”

“This is why you’ve been so moody.” Draco slipped his arms around Albus, pulling him in close, and Albus went willingly, needing that contact from his lover.

“Well, that and being pregnant.”

The quip didn’t make Draco laugh. Instead, Albus raised his face so that Draco could kiss him, long and slow and deep. Fingers plucked at his buttons, and Albus returned the favor, sliding his hands into Draco’s robes to shove them off his shoulders.

They could figure this out later. Right now they needed each other.

Tears pricked the corners of Albus’ eyes and he fought them back. This was _not_ goodbye. This would _not_ end. Not like this. Not here, not now. He wasn’t ready to let go.

Albus stripped Draco quickly, nudging him back until Draco sat on the edge of the bed. He knelt at his feet, nipping the insides of Draco’s thighs until he moaned. Albus loved this, loved the feel of Draco’s body coming awake as he teased him, rubbing his cheek against Draco’s prick. A small gasp at the rough brush of Albus’ stubble against the soft skin stretched over Draco’s erection. Albus shifted and swallowed him, letting Draco thrust into his throat, tongue soothing.

Something twisted in his gut, leapt and tangled and begged.

Albus’ stomach growled, viciously loud amidst the soft sighs and harsh breathing.

He pulled back, gasping, afraid of what he wanted to do. Instinct begged for more.

Draco framed Al’s face with his hands, thumbs keeping him in place as he looked down. “I’m going to fuck you into the mattress,” he whispered. “And then we shall figure out exactly what is required to keep you and our son alive.”

“No!” Albus twisted away, pushing to his feet and placing distance between them. He didn’t trust his hands, clenched by his sides so he couldn’t reach out. If he touched Draco he might hurt him, he felt the need so strongly. Flesh was soft, it would give way to his teeth and tongue and his son would be satisfied. Purified.

“Yes.” Draco’s tone was firm, expecting no argument. “I can’t lose you.” His voice softened. He reached out, drew Albus in and Al went reluctantly into his arms. “If you die, everything I am dies with you,” Draco murmured. “If I die, you and our son will live on, and I’ll still be here, through him. He would destroy you, but he will absorb me. Do you see the difference?”

Albus could see it, but he didn’t want to admit to it. He clung to Draco’s shoulder, face pressed against his skin and shook his head, refusing.

“It’s the way it has to be.”

“I can’t, Draco.” Albus’ voice broke on his name. “I can’t do this. Not without you.”

A slow, sorrowed smile spread. “That’s the magic in it, Albus. You’ll never be alone.” Draco tilted Albus’ head up so he could brush lips against lips. “I’ll always be with you.”

Draco kissed his tears away as he stripped the clothes from Albus’ body. He laid him back upon the bed and kissed every exposed inch of skin, until tears gave way to groans and sighs, Al’s hips lifting to press up, begging to be touched. When Draco finally took his prick into his mouth, he pressed down against Albus’ hips, not letting him move again, waiting until he relaxed before he sucked him in deeply and let him slip out again. Slow, steady, until Albus ached with need and want.

Draco’s tongue drifted down between Albus’ bollocks, teasing the sensitive perineum, then circling his tight hole. Albus groaned, relaxing, and Draco pressed just the tip of his tongue in. 

They weren’t done talking. It was still there, in the back of Albus’ mind, that they needed to finish this conversation. That how they had ended it was _wrong_. 

But Draco’s tongue was wicked, pressing into Albus, opening him until he cried out, desperate for more. “I need you,” Albus whispered. “ _I need you_.”

Draco shifted them both, moving Albus to the edge of the bed before two slick fingers slid into Albus’ bottom, stretching him, readying him. Albus closed his eyes, fingers digging into the sheets, twisting as he pressed back against that touch, needing more of it. Draco swiped a finger over his prostate and Albus groaned, balls tightening. “Please,” he begged. “Please, oh _Merlin_ , I need you.”

And Draco was there, one hand tangled with Albus’ hand against the sheets, the other on the swell of Albus’ belly. He looked down at Albus, locking gazes as Draco slowly slid into him. He didn’t stop, pressing deep until he was fully seated, Albus panting slightly from the full feel of him. Draco’s thumb slid against Albus’ palm as he murmured, “I love you, Al. More than anything, I love you.”

He pulled back and thrust hard, over and over until the world shattered in a red haze of pleasure. Albus floated in the aftermath, anchored by Draco’s fingers over his hips, chest, belly, shoulders. With each fleeting touch, Draco whispered those words again. _I love you. I love you_.

Albus wasn’t sure whether Draco spoke to him or their son. Perhaps both.

When Draco lay beside him, arms and legs tangled, their son restless in Albus’ belly between them, tears slid from Albus’ eyes, soaking into the sheets beneath them.

“It’s the only way,” Draco murmured.

Albus didn’t answer, because he knew that if it was what Draco wanted, he would do it. He couldn’t deny him. And he couldn’t deny the primal urge to protect their son.

#

In the end, only the heart remains.

It lies there, nestled against the soft silk that lines the coffin, red and beating slowly in an echo of a life long lived and well loved.

Albus reaches in carefully, cradling it in his hands, feeling the strange warmth and the echo of its beat within his own chest. Draco’s heart. He raises it slowly to his mouth, lips pressing a kiss to the veins along the outside. He tastes blood and knows they have come full circle. He took Draco’s life at the start, and now he takes his heart to carry with him for always.

Their son turns in his belly, awake and alive. Strong. Anxious to escape. There is a twinge, and it is different than the pain of being devoured from the inside. No, this is a healthy pain. labour, just beginning.

But first, this.

Albus holds the heart in careful hands, lifting it high. Thumbs press in, splitting it with a squoosh as blood trickles out. He catches each drop on his tongue and swallows; he cannot waste it.

Nor can he break Draco’s heart. He has pierced it, but he will not tear it, will not let it separate. Instead he squeezes slowly, feeling the muscle compact as he drips blood into his mouth like juice from a fruit. Salt and metal, he swallows.

When no more comes of it, he opens his mouth as wide as he can, eyes squeezing from the effort. It is nearly impossible, but he manages to get the heart into his mouth whole.

It chokes him. Too big, he gasps for air around it.

The first time his teeth close, the muscle is tough, resisting him before it gives way with a soft snap.

It is as if it knows him, each bite easier. Sinew and flesh start tough but melt with each slice of his teeth. He worries it between his molars, breaking down Draco’s heart and swallowing him whole. Eyes closed, memories sweep over him: Draco’s soft words, whispering _I love you_ with every kiss over Albus’ body.

He swallows, and it is done.

Draco is gone.

Pain squeezes through him, wrapping from his spine around his sides to press against his son. Albus feels his muscles bearing down and he can’t breathe for the strength of it.

It’s time.

He stumbles through the house to the Floo and tosses in the powder without looking. He grinds out the words _St. Mungo’s_ , barely able to get them out before pain has him doubling over again. The Healer had told him it would be gradual, that he’d have time to accustom himself to the labour. But no, this child has gone from not quite ready to the immediacy of birth. Albus wonders if he can get there in time.

Hands catch him when he falls from the Floo, and voices yell at the blood on his hands and body. He is carried into a delivery room and cleansed even as the Healers are summoned and his body prepared for birth.

There is nothing easy about this. They cannot clean him fast enough, and when their son is born, Albus’ blood mixes with Draco’s on his skin and he feels this is only right. This child is theirs, not his.

Time passes in a haze and begins again only when a squalling infant is placed on Albus’ chest.

He looks down and meets the silvered eyes of his son. He touches the tip of a tilted nose, and the child seeks nourishment, mouth moving as he makes a mewling whimper.

“Scorpius Draco Potter-Malfoy,” Albus says quietly, and he is surprised how hoarse his voice is. He remembers hearing screams, and supposes it must have been himself.

“You need to rest,” the Healer murmurs. “Feed your son, then sleep.”

Albus is left alone with his son, the infant suckling at the bottle. He watches him for a long moment, heart beating hollow in his chest.

It is over. It is done.

“Your body, your blood,” Albus murmurs. “I did this in remembrance of you, and of who we are.”

Scorpius’ eyes flicker open, and he stares up at Albus. Trust, in that silver gaze; Albus sees Draco look out through their son’s eyes.

Blood, body, heart and soul. He will never forget.


End file.
